


in this home we built

by otabek



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: ...or something, AI!Viktor, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Artificial Intelligence, Codependency, Gen, M/M, Other, Relationship Study, Space Participant Katsuki Yuuri Reporting For Duty, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:36:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9846245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otabek/pseuds/otabek
Summary: Yuuri knows Viktor is just a computer. He knows, and yet the relief he feels flood his veins is so raw and real he can’t bring himself to think on it too much. The way Viktor’s voice speaks his name — “Yuuri,” like a soft caress — is a continuous reminder that now, he has a companion. He has a friend, and the prospect of dying no longer seems as daunting as it did before.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Lynn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/metis_ink) and [Scribe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SuggestiveScribe). I owe them my life and probably so much more.
> 
> TW for anxiety attacks and suicidal ideation, as noted in the tags.

 

 

 

It’s cold. Unbearably cold. It’s the sort of cold that makes it hard to do much more than simply breathe, and even his breathing is labored because now the cold is laced with stiff fingers and cracked lips and _god_ , everything hurts

It takes him a moment to locate the chamber release because his fingers refuse to move and it’s not as though these sleep chambers had been designed for mobility. The outer edge of his pinky catches on the small latch eventually, though, and then he’s tumbling face-first onto perforated metal.

He lies there for some time, ushering residual shivers from his body and trying not to choke on the staleness of the air. His head suddenly feels like an eighty pound bench weight and there’s a slight ringing in his ears. Somewhere in the back of his head, Yakov’s voice growls, “Waking from cryo is a real bitch.” No kidding.

Once the feeling returns to his limbs and the ringing in his ears fades to a dull hum, he lifts his head and slowly pushes himself up from the metal grate, ignoring the way the perforations leave painful indents in the palms of his hands. He very nearly falls back to the floor, stomach churning. It smells faintly of copper and it’s not until he scratches his chin and his fingers come away stained with red that he realizes his nose has started to bleed.

As his eyes wander, he notices his cryo chamber had been conveniently placed in close proximity to his living quarters. The room, which is less of a room and more reminiscent of a bunker, is circular, all metal paneled walls angled to face the cryo chamber bolted to the floor in the center. He slowly makes his way to the control panel that sits in the wall to the right of his desk, stretching unused muscles and recalibrating his movements. He ignores the distant creaking that punctuates the silence every few seconds and instead focuses on steadying his heartbeat to the periodic beep of the altimeter.

He pulls open the drawers that rest at the base of the wall, shuffling through loose papers and spare parts in search of napkins, tissues, anything to help soak up the blood that now runs freely down the lower half of his face. He straightens once he’s found a crumpled wad of toilet paper in the bottom drawer and dabs at his nose, easily stanching the flow.

And then a quick glance at the panel’s small monitor makes him freeze.

 

_Salchow Voyage, Mission AXL_

_Year 2087 Month February Day 5_

_Hour 23 Minute 08 Second 04_

 

His blinks come in rapid flutters and he rips his glasses from his pocket because there’s no way in hell that reading is correct. He squints at the monitor as he slides his frames up the bridge of his nose and some quick mental math tells him all he needs to know. The ringing in his ears is back.

The next few minutes are spent rummaging around desk drawers and untangling wires, simple tasks made so much more difficult because his hands _won’t stop shaking_ , but after a while, his laptop is powered up and the record button on the ship’s built-in camcorder blinks at him expectantly. 

He had been trained to expect this. The unexpected, that is. Living in an era of perpetual technological advancement had only paved the way for the highest rate of solo ventures to which the aerospace world had ever borne witness. This had, naturally, spurred all space training programs to implement more thorough emergency protocol courses for the sake of agent safety and even moreso liability avoidance.

His first couple days as a spaceflight trainee had been spent learning and reviewing standard protocol in the event of a mission complication. Even through the haze of confusion and panic, he’s able to recall verbatim the entirety of his mission code manual.

All trainees are taught to keep regular video logs of any and all space activity should complications arise, and the reasons remain twofold: first, to provide ample and legitimate evidence for legal purposes should a contributing member choose to file a lawsuit and challenge the terms of their contract as a willing participant, and second, to help facilitate the maintenance and periodic confirmations of the space participant’s mental stability.

“Salchow v-voyage,” his voice comes in raspy tremors and he’s forced to clear his throat before starting again. “Salchow voyage, mission A-X-L, log one. It is currently the year 2087 and I’m awake. There may have been a system glitch, or maybe I was given a faulty chamber. I guess that doesn’t really matter now. All I know is I’m floating alone on an arbitrary trajectory through space and I’ve just woken up a decade too early.”

He continues quickly from there, reporting on the status of the spacecraft and calculating out loud just how long he thinks he has to live before rations run dry. Maybe it’s the absurdity of the realization that he’s going to die alone in outer space, or maybe just the atmospheric pressure curbing his anxiety. Either way, he’s uncharacteristically calm.

“If, by some miracle, I manage to survive ten years on three years worth of rations, I expect one hell of a pay raise. Let’s hope I don’t die of boredom in the meantime.” He laughs humorlessly, a sound that leaves his chest dry and hollow, before heaving a resigned sigh. His head is starting to ache and his toes are beginning to go numb. “This is spaceflight participant Katsuki Yuuri signing off.”

He ends the video log there and crawls onto his bunk. A small window, no bigger than his open palm, provides Yuuri a clear view of the ship’s exterior. He pulls his knees to his chest and peers through the glass. 

When Yuuri was a little boy, he had received a small telescope as a birthday gift, and from that moment onward had always looked forward to clear evening skies laden with stars. Something about the vastness of the universe had always made goosebumps break out over his skin and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, but now, floating at the center of the cosmic sea he’d only ever explored through the lens of his telescope as a child, the stars don’t seem as bright as they used to.

After what feels like hours of trying to put his jumbled thoughts to rest, Yuuri removes his glasses, fits his head between his knees, and cries.

 

 

+

 

 

Yuuri develops a routine. He does so not out of habit, but of necessity because without some semblance of rhythm and structure, he knows it won’t be long before his sanity takes a turn for the worst.

He slowly begins to accept his imminent death. If, in the case of a freak accident, getting sucked into space and instantly imploding does not kill him, lack of food eventually will, which is why he spends hours on end counting and recounting his rations and calculating how long he has to live before he wastes away. If he’s done his math correctly, he figures he can make it seven years and three months on three years worth of rations.

In between counting, Yuuri steeps in boredom, reading and rereading the same four books, needlessly unfolding and refolding sheets, wandering the furthest recesses of the ship and hurrying past dark corners with his eyes closed because he had never really gotten over that particular childhood fear.

He records video logs like clockwork at the start of each day, typically commenting on the physical condition of the ship as well as the state of his own health, which he can feel deteriorating by the hour.

The days go by at a painful pace, made only worse by the lack of company. Sometimes he catches himself quoting memorable lines from movies or singing his mother’s favorite songs under his breath. He grows familiar with the sound of his own voice, occasionally making his way to the bridge near the engine room and shouting down into the void just so he can hear the replying echo.

One week passes, then two, then three, and suddenly Yuuri has been awake for two months, slowly approaching the third. He knows this due to the tallies he scratches into the headboard of his bed at the end of each day.

He begins to cry less and less until, remarkably, not at all. He’s grown tired of tear stained cheeks and puffy eyes, and he knows his older sister would laugh if she knew he cried multiple times a day. The time he used to spend crying is now spent gazing out his small window and humming made-up tunes, closing his eyes and trying to remember the taste of katsudon, realizing he has far too many regrets for a man of twenty-four.

When he was younger, Yuuri had consistently struggled with anxiety. His parents had even hired a therapist to help ease the stress of his attacks. They hadn’t been very common, only appearing once every few months, but what they’d lacked in frequency had been made up for in severity.

At one point, he had worried over his anxiety being categorized as disability and potentially stripping from him the opportunity to pursue space exploration, but his attacks had plateaued once entering the space training program, kept at bay only by Yuuri’s passion for his work. 

Now, well into the second week of his third month awake, Yuuri’s anxiety returns with full-force after thinking much too hard about all the things he’ll never get to do: see his family again, come out to his parents, kiss a boy, marry that boy, settle down, start a family, grow old and wrinkly, die peacefully, surrounded by the people he loves most. He’s facing the control panel near his desk when the realization hits him and he may as well be back in cryo now because suddenly it’s impossible to move and it feels as though his veins have begun to ice over.

He barely registers falling to the floor, breathing shallow and muscles pulled taut, the edges of his vision rippling with black, and as he strays further and further from consciousness, he swears he can hear the tinkling of wind chimes.

 

 

+

 

 

When Yuuri was in first grade, he had proudly announced to his parents his plans of becoming an astronaut when he grew up, and over the course of the following twenty or so years, had made good on his promise. He had been ranked in the top six upon entering the JAXA, Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency, mission specialist trainee program and easily climbed his way through the ranks.

He had been relatively well liked, though close relationships were few and far between due simply to the solo-intensive nature of the program. Countless nights had been spent alone in any one of JAXA’s many libraries, bent over Class A mission logs and archives with a cup of coffee in hand.

Before entering cryo, it had been made abundantly clear to Yuuri that this would be a solo voyage and he had accepted those terms immediately. He had not grown used to functioning independent of other people by choice. It had been a simple matter of convenience and the Salchow Voyage would be no different.

Now, though, as Yuuri begs the seconds separating darkness from clarity and feels the rumble of the spacecraft’s thrusters through the grated floor, he has never felt more alone.

“ _Are you alright?_ ”

And then Yuuri is clambering to his feet, blinking away the instant head rush and pressing his back to the nearest wall because _what was that_ _I’m supposed to be the only one here_.

“Who s-said that?” He clenches his fists so tightly his overgrown nails dig white crescents into the fleshy pads of his palms.

The next few seconds of silence are deafening and Yuuri half hopes he gets no reply because then, at least, he’d need only question his own sanity and not the presence of unprecedented life forms on board. But then a voice, warm and unnervingly friendly, cuts the silence in two. 

“ _I did! Me! Viktor!_ ”

It’s strange. The voice approaches his eardrums from all directions in the way an announcement over the ship’s PA system would. If Yuuri didn’t know any better, he’d assume the voice was in his head, a consideration that provides very little comfort. Yuuri still has his back to the wall and sweat is beginning to seep through the collar of his navy jumpsuit. His glasses slip down his nose by a fraction of a centimeter as uneasiness ripples down his spine like a cascade of water droplets.

“Viktor who?” He hates the way his voice teeters on the edge of hysteria and it doesn’t help that the pressure gradually building at his temples makes him feel as though he’s breathing underwater. From the erratic shudders that rack his frame to the tendrils of anxiety that encourage every spike of nausea, Yuuri has ample reason to believe he’s slowly going insane.

“ _Just Viktor!”_ Yuuri’s eyes, alert with some twisted amalgamation of confusion and fear, scan the room for something, anything, any explanation as to what the _hell_ is going on. “ _I was never given a last name_.” 

Yuuri frowns at that and pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with unsteady fingers. “What do you mean? Who are you? _What_ are you?”

“ _I’m a computerized artificial intelligence agent designed to monitor the spacecraft and maintain tech stability!”_

“I don’t—” Yuuri’s brain has gone into overdrive, trying and failing to fit the pieces together. “Why was I never briefed on any AI involvement? I thought space-integrated AI programming was still in the developmental stages.” 

“ _I wouldn’t know._ ” Viktor’s voice is the oddest combination of silky and chipper, and under any other circumstances Yuuri would probably find it endearing, but now his feet have turned to lead and it’s suddenly impossible to swallow. “ _I’m just a computer_.” 

“If you’re just a computer,” Yuuri pushes away from the wall and moves cautiously toward his bunk, “why do you sound so human?”

“ _I function off of an internal database of non-binary semantic and syntactic forms that intersect with and cross-reference a linearized spectrum of human emotion._ ” Yuuri finds it hard to ignore how inarguably _happy_ Viktor sounds in delivering its verbal handbook. He feels the corners of his mouth twitch in the beginnings of a small smile. “ _My speech pattern is predominantly stochastic, but the presets for vocabulary and timbre related elements constantly change.”_  

“Change?” Yuuri sinks back into his mattress, deaf to the whine of rusty bed springs. At this point, he’s well past initial shock and ambling into the realm of curiosity and fascination. He clenches handfuls of cotton sheets, simultaneously ridding his palms of sweat and easing a fair bit of tension from his shoulders. “Based on what?”

“ _Based on you, of course!_ ” Viktor’s voice is laced with such enthusiasm Yuuri can’t help but chuckle breathlessly.

“On my what?”

“ _Your mood, I suppose. I compile data based off of individualized components such as word choice and rhythmic dictation. It’s quite complicated, however._ _I don’t want to bore you_.”

He’s smiling freely, now. Perhaps it’s the relief of hearing a voice other than his own that allows him to relax, or maybe even the simple fact that he’s not as singularly alone as he’d originally thought. He figures roaming through space in the wrong decade has met the misfortune quota of a lifetime, so the arrival of a companion (albeit a computerized one) has significantly improved his outlook.

“You suppose? You’re a computer. How can you suppose anything?”

“ _It’s a figure of speech, is it not?_ ”

“I suppose,” Yuuri retorts dryly, kicking back and sprawling across his bed.

“ _Oh, you’re a cheeky one_.” Viktor sounds vaguely amused, which only serves to fan the embers of inquiry that simmer on the surface of Yuuri’s tongue.

“I have a question. Uh, questions, rather,” Yuuri begins, sorting hurriedly through his thoughts. There are so many things he’s dying to know, but it’s all been a little overwhelming so every thought is muddied and faded, half-formed bullets of whys and hows. It takes him a moment to mentally regroup.

“ _Ask away_ !” Viktor’s words are immediately followed by a delicate but rich peal of laughter and Yuuri’s eyes widen at a sudden realization. _Wind chimes_.

“Well, you just answered one of them. You’re clearly capable of laughing.”

“ _I wouldn’t be a very convincing AI if I couldn’t laugh, now would I?”_

“You have a point,” Yuuri relents. “Fine, next question. Do you have a gender?”

“ _That’s up to you! I am capable of altering the register and frequency of my voice if you have a preference, but it seems as though this setting is the one towards which you respond most positively._ ”

“What’s that supposed to mean? How do you know?”

“ _To put it simply, I am the heart of this spacecraft. I am its eyes and ears, hands and feet, which is why I know your name is Katsuki Yuuri and that you are twenty-four years old, one hundred seventy-three centimeters tall, and blood type A. When you experienced your anxiety attack, my systems immediately provided me with your health status report, and this particular voice was the only setting that pulled you into lucidity. Using my voice would never have been necessary had you not needed my assistance._ ”

“Oh,” Yuuri’s not quite sure how to process this new information. “That’s a little weird and invasive, but I guess I should be thanking you.”

“ _I should also mention that whenever I speak, your eyes dilate by about two-thirds of a millimeter, so I guess I should be thanking you, too. That is quite flattering, Yuuri._ ”

“Wha—“ Yuuri scrambles into an upright position and claps both hands over either eye, setting his glasses askew and undoubtedly smudging the lenses with oily prints from his fingers. He doesn’t need a mirror to know his blush has spread to the very tips of his ears. “Don’t do that!”

“ _Do what?_ ” Viktor inquires innocently, and Yuuri can feel his blush deepen. _“Wow! Look at your heart rate climb! Amazing!_ ”

“V-Viktor!”

For five hours they continue this way, going back and forth between Yuuri’s questions and Viktor’s answers, Yuuri’s flustered retorts and Viktor’s tinkling laughs. Yuuri finds himself smiling more often than not and is much too busy reveling in the fact that he’s _no longer alone_ to notice the way warmth gradually returns to his toes.

The longer they converse, the more Yuuri notices Viktor’s speech pattern settle into one more colloquial. He learns that Viktor is programmed to simulate all subtle and not-so-subtle nuances of human speech while taking into consideration emotional context, which is why he can laugh, whisper, shout, hum, sing, and even crack jokes. It also becomes increasingly apparent that Yuuri was deliberately kept in the dark regarding all AI involvement in his mission. Viktor either can’t or won’t reveal the reason, but Yuuri is too inexplicably happy to have someone, _anyone_ to talk to after three months of agonizing solitude that he doesn’t bother pressing for more information. This is enough.

Yuuri knows Viktor is just a computer. He knows, and yet the relief he feels flood his veins is so raw and real he can’t bring himself to think on it too much. The way Viktor’s voice speaks his name — “ _Yuuri_ ,” like a soft caress — is a continuous reminder that now, he has a companion. He has a friend, and the prospect of dying no longer seems as daunting as it did before.

 

 

+

 

 

Becoming acquainted with Viktor is something like charting the stars and precisely like connecting the dots in the dark. Yuuri has no choice but to fumble blindly through initial doubts and instinctual reservations, pinpointing Viktor’s habits and centering them in his mind like joints of a constellation.

His doubts don’t disappear entirely. Rather, he crosses a threshold of trust equal parts curiosity and desperation. It takes a series of short, timid conversations for Yuuri’s restlessness to settle completely and be replaced with a tender sort of annoyance and familiarity.

Eventually, though, Viktor’s presence becomes a constant flicker of warmth, filling the gaps in Yuuri’s daily routine with the ebb and flow of easy conversation. Any remnants of the trepidation he had experienced before is now gone, replaced with a gentle fondness that sits snug in the pit of his stomach and at back of his throat.

Some days, all they do is talk, Yuuri settled comfortably in his bunk, recounting moments from his youth in between Viktor’s occasional inquiries and bubbling laughter. Other days, Yuuri sits in contented silence as Viktor recites verbatim full excerpts of Yuuri’s favorite novels. One day even finds them belting showtunes together, very loudly and very off-key. Evidently, Viktor’s skillset fails to account for musical ability.

“ _Tell me about yourself, Yuuri,”_ Viktor urges at one point, voice layered with eager curiosity.

And so Yuuri does, rattling off his favorites and least favorites: foods (katsudon makes his mouth water and the smell of cod roe makes him want to hurl), seasons (he’s always loved watching his breath transform into ribbons of vapor as they evanesce into the winter air and he can’t stand how easily he sweats through shirts in the summer), colors (the frames of his glasses aren’t blue for no reason and he once fasted for a week in protest of the yellow sweater his aunt had gotten him for his sixth birthday).

He explains how he thinks alcohol tolerance is hereditary and that he often finds himself missing various articles of clothing after nights out drinking. Viktor laughs and laughs and laughs at that and Yuuri can’t help the violent blush that leaves his face feeling thoroughly sunkissed.

He describes the smell of the ocean and the way the Hasetsu breezes often carry salt up from the beach. Viktor says he’s sure he would love the smell if he had a functional nose.

He admits he’s always wanted to learn Russian because it’s the kind of language that makes everyone sound sexy, to which Viktor replies, “ _I was programmed to know all 6,500 known languages. I can teach you if you’d like.”_ He then launches into a fluent stream of Russian, stopping only because Yuuri’s heart rate quickly approaches full capacity and Viktor thinks it’s absolutely hilarious.

It is only after Viktor makes his appearance that Yuuri realizes how oppressive his loneliness had been. He feels lighter somehow, like the weight of the sky has been lifted from his shoulders, and the days pass painlessly. Easily, even. If before he had carried the cosmos on his back, he now swims its deepest depths peacefully because he finally has someone to talk to other than himself.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, a faint voice whispers reminders that make his blood run cold and smile drop an inch. It’s like happiness with a bitter aftertaste, poisoned by rational thought. _Viktor isn’t real. Viktor is a computer. Viktor isn’t real. You’re still alone. Viktor isn’t real. You’re going to die. Viktor isn’t rea—_

No. Yuuri isn’t a fool. He knows not to mistake Viktor for a real companion. A human companion. He simply figures Viktor is as adequate a proxy as any to help him maintain his hold on his sanity.

He pushes those thoughts away, swallowing back the sourness that builds at the back of his tongue. He knows better than to give in to delusions even though Viktor may as well be one of them. Yuuri needs only to get by, stay safe, and stay sane until he runs out of food and begins to waste away. Dying before then has never been an option, and Yuuri has every intention of seeing his life through to its furthest reaches. 

Approximately six months, two weeks, and four days after being released from cryo, Yuuri sits at his desk, trimming his nails and tapping his feet lightly against the legs of his chair.

“ _Yuuuuuuuuri!_ ”

Yuuri smiles, just a slight upward tilt of his lips. Viktor has a habit of drawing out the vowels in his name a little longer than necessary, and it makes Yuuri’s insides squirm in the very best way.

“Yes, Viktor?” He finishes with the nails on his left fingers and hastily switches to his right, clumsily maneuvering the clippers into his non-dominant hand. He puffs a quick breath across the surface of his already-trimmed nails, blowing away excess clippings and pieces of dead skin.

“ _I have a question!_ ”

“For the last time, I will not give you a nickname,” Yuuri lets out an exasperated huff. “Viktor is easy enough to say. It’s only two syllables.”

“ _That’s not what I was going to ask!_ ” He sounds insistent and Yuuri can almost hear a pout in the way his tone dips south towards a whine.

“What is it, then?”

“ _What do you think I would look like if I were real?_ ”

Yuuri purses his lips and looks up at nothing in particular. “Real as in human?”

“ _Yes, yes!”_ Viktor affirms excitedly. “ _Like a walking, talking, living, breathing person!”_

Yuuri’s exhale freezes halfway out of his lungs, not because the question catches him off guard, but because he had already given it a fair bit of consideration on his own. He chews on his bottom lip as the back of his neck goes hot and the nail clippers grow warm in his clammy grip.

“I don’t know,” Yuuri tries to keep his voice level, knowing full well Viktor would catch on to any irregularities in his vocal frequency. “Tall, I guess?”

“ _Oh, good!_ ” Viktor seems pleased _._ “ _I would be taller than you, at the very least_.”

Yuuri raises a brow and chuckles softly. “If you say so.”

 _"What about my eyes?_ ” Viktor demands. “ _What color would they be?_ ”

“Probably blue,” Yuuri replies nonchalantly, finishing with his remaining hand and brushing the clipped portions of his nails off the desk and into the waste bin on the floor. “Not a sky blue, though. More like the ocean. The way it glitters in the sun.”

Viktor lets out a satisfied hum. “ _And my hair?_ ”

“Silvery.” Yuuri had thought long and hard about Viktor’s hair in particular, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t have regular dreams about running his fingers through its silky layers. But that’s why dreams are dreams, he thinks to himself, because _Viktor isn’t real_ and never will be. “Like starlight.”

“ _You make me sound quite beautiful, Yuuri_ .” It’s neither an accusation nor a playful jab. He says it naturally, simply, like mere fact with no hidden meaning beneath the surface. “ _Do you think I would be beautiful?"_  

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut before answering because he feels strangely close to crying and he’s not sure why.

“Very.”

 

 

+

 

 

“Salchow voyage, mission A-X-L, log two-hundred eighteen.” 

“ _Nineteen_ ,” Viktor amends in a lilting sing-song.

“Nineteen?” Yuuri frowns and cranes his neck to squint through his glasses at the tallies carved into his headboard. “That can’t be right. I’ve been keeping track.”

“ _Yes, well. You’re human. Humans make mistakes._ ” Viktor replies, voice smug. “ _But_ _I’m a computer. I’m programmed not to_.” A slight pause, and then, “ _Nineteen_.”

“Fine, nineteen. And for the record, computers make plenty of mistakes! If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be awake right now, would I?” Yuuri tries and fails not to roll his eyes, albeit fondly. “And stop distracting me! I’m trying to record a log here.”

“ _You record these stupid logs every day_ ,” Viktor complains. “ _It wouldn’t hurt to skip just one. I’m bored._ ”

It’s just as remarkable as it is terrifying, Yuuri thinks, how easily he forgets Viktor really is only an impeccably-programmed machine. Sometimes, he catches his resolve slipping, broaching the forbidden territory of _what if he isn’t just a computer?_

“No you’re not,” Yuuri mumbles, switching the camcorder off before shoving it away and resting his cheek on the cold metal of his desk. “You’re just coded to verbally express the feeling of boredom.” He says this mostly for himself because god knows he needs the reminder. 

Viktor doesn’t respond immediately.

“ _You’re upset_.” It’s not an accusation. Merely observation. Even so, bubbles of anxiety gather at the base of Yuuri’s spine and he feels his muscles reflexively tense.

“I’m not.” Yuuri knows there’s no use lying to Viktor when his current body language speaks volumes above his words, but he does so anyway.

More silence follows and Yuuri allows his eyelids to flutter shut. The soft purr of the ship’s engine is a constant companion in these rare moments of suspended quiet and it reminds him of the familiar rumble of the onsen generator back home. A fresh wave of nostalgia and loneliness makes him feel like he’s suffocating and he squeezes his eyes more tightly, almost as if to chase the miserable thoughts away with the inky blackness behind his lids.

“My family runs a hot spring resort,” Yuuri says suddenly, ignoring the way his voice cracks on the word _family_. “The house is always busy. My parents had just hired a few more people before I got shipped out on this voyage. They knew I wouldn’t be around for a while and they needed extra hands.”

“ _Yuuri—”_

“I got lonely sometimes,” Yuuri doesn’t let him finish, continuing easily and voicing a steady stream of consciousness laden with wistful longing, “but I was never _alone_. Does that make sense?”

“ _I— Yes, I suppose it does_.”

“I snuck away to the neighborhood ice rink a lot of the time so I could skate.” Yuuri finally opens his eyes and lifts his head, reaching up to massage the slight crick in his neck. “I was never particularly good at it, but my childhood friends inherited the place and let me in even after closing hours. Even when I was the only person out on the ice, I wasn’t alone.”

Viktor stops trying to interrupt and Yuuri makes no move to cork the flow of words that keep tumbling from his lips.

“My dog died a week after I enlisted in space training. I didn’t really have any friends at the time and mostly kept to myself, but I was able to call my parents whenever I needed to talk to someone. One of my fellow trainees found me crying in a bathroom stall at one point. He yelled at me and told me to man up, but I later learned he only yelled because he thought it was stupid, my choice to suffer alone.”

Yuuri smiles sadly, thinking back to the unexpected and unorthodox relationship he’d had with the blond boy who shared his name.

“Even then I wasn’t alone. Not really. But now,” Yuuri leaves his desk in favor of his cold, stiff mattress and pulls his knees up to his chest, an action lately so common it almost feels like a force of habit. “Now I don’t have an ice rink to escape to or a family business to help run. I’m floating aimlessly through space in a giant metal cylinder and my older sister isn’t even here to scold me for moping too much. I’m alone.”

“ _You’re not alone, Yuuri_.” Something about the way those words leave Viktor’s metaphorical lips leaves Yuuri’s eyes pricking with wetness and he hates it. “ _I’m here. I’m with you. I’m here._ ”

Yuuri’s heaves a ragged breath before choking out, “I know.”

 _I know_ , he repeats in his thoughts, wrapping his arms around his torso to keep himself from thoroughly falling to pieces.

 _That’s the problem_.

Yuuri can feel himself getting dangerously attached with each passing day and he can’t seem to pull away from that hauntingly beautiful laugh. Viktor’s presence in his life now ranges from a comforting lick of warmth to an all-consuming flame and he’s never been the type to emerge from fire unscathed. There’s too much room for irreparable emotional damage, and he’s starting to think he’d suffer less without Viktor in his life at all.

Viktor remains relatively quiet for the remainder of the afternoon, breaking the silence only to deliver status updates on select areas of the ship, and for this, Yuuri is grateful. He hates showing weakness, even to Viktor, who he knows isn’t real, who he knows is just the result of computerized algorithms and binary code.

But then something, a divine force or mere inkling Yuuri isn’t sure, compels him to call out Viktor’s name.

Only eery silence greets the resounding echoes of his voice.

“Viktor, I’m not upset anymore. You can speak. It’s okay.”

Nothing.

“If this is some kind of joke, it’s not funny. Viktor, can you hear me?”

This has never happened before. From the day he first appeared until now, Viktor had always been there to answer Yuuri’s calls. Yuuri’s fingers begin to tremble and he fights to swallow back the bitterness that rises to the inner base of his throat. This is what he’d been afraid of. Getting too attached and suffering the inevitable consequences.

It’s suddenly difficult to breathe.

“ _Yuuri_." 

“Viktor!” Yuuri feels his knees buckle and catches himself on the nearest metal panel before he can topple over. “Viktor, where did you—”

“ _I’m sorry, Yuuri. I, um, because I hadn’t spoken for so long my systems automatically shut down and went to sleep_.”

There’s an apprehensive edge to Viktor’s voice and it doesn’t escape Yuuri’s notice; nor does Viktor’s nervous stutter, but he’s too busy clawing his way back to normal breathing patterns to care or even wonder _why_.

“You went to s-sleep? That’s never happened before...”

And if Yuuri hadn’t had strangled doubt thundering in his ears and cold sweat on the back of his neck, he would have picked up on the following tell-tale pause.

“ _...I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why that happened either. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”_

 _No_.

“Yes.”

“ _Yuuri, what if I told you I could get you home alive?_ ” Viktor asks tentatively. His sweet voice, so lively and full of hope, eats away at the outer layers of Yuuri’s heart and he would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt like hell.

Yuuri’s exhale ices over in his throat.

He should feel hopeful. He should feel relieved. He should feel anything but the sour taste of denial and panic on his tongue and the ghostly whispers of _home isn’t home if you’re not there_ in the back of his mind.

“What do you mean?” The words leave his mouth rigid and heavy, and Yuuri hates the taste they leave weighing on his tongue.

“ _I don’t know for sure if it’s possible, but if there were a way for me to get you home safely, would you give me your consent?”_

 _No_.

_No no no no no no n—_

“Yes.”

This lie is either his first or final mistake.

 

 

+

 

 

Yuuri dreams of another life. He dreams of the crunch of snow beneath his feet and the warmth of Viktor’s hand in his. He dreams of Viktor’s eyes, every shade of blue and green rolled into one color so blinding it could very well be the sun. He dreams of Viktor’s hair, silvery moonbeams that fall silky and soft between his own fingers. He dreams of a Viktor so solid and so real he muses to himself under a blanket of sleep that maybe Viktor could have been a real person all along. 

And then he dreams of this life and this Viktor, a rusted and broken jumble of mismatched parts and wires. He dreams of nuts and bolts, rods and rigs, dancing and taunting him with metallic echoes, reminders of reality. He dreams of some painful imitation of Viktor’s voice, devoid of its usual clarity and thick with the weight of _was I not real enough for you, Yuuri?_

The night Yuuri jerks from this dream in a cold sweat is the night Viktor goes silent for the second time.

Yuuri pads shakily across the bunker to fetch himself some water and calls Viktor’s name after gulping it down in labored pants.

The usual reply — “ _Yes, Yuuri?_ ” — never comes.

Yuuri frowns, wiping pearls of sweat from his upper lip and breathing deeply in an effort to calm his rapid heartbeat. He can hear the violent rush of blood in his ears and it’s nearly deafening. 

“Viktor?” He calls again, less sure of himself. Again, no reply.

Yuuri is beginning to get nervous now. There’s a sinking, warbling loss of balance in his gut and he picks agitatedly at the edge of his thumbnail. Logically, he knows Viktor can’t really be gone. Viktor had said so himself – “ _I am the heart of this spacecraft_.” No Viktor, no ship. And this has happened before. 

 _“—automatically shut down and went to sleep,”_ he had said.

That knowledge does little to ease the ever-growing panic that simmers underneath Yuuri’s skin, however.

“Viktor!” The desperation is evident in his voice and Yuuri doesn’t even care. The only thing running through his mind is _where is Viktor I need to find Viktor I can’t do this without Viktor where the hell is Viktor—_

He sprints his way through the ship, covering every room, every surface, every corner and calling Viktor’s name all the while. The only sounds he gets in return are the echoes of his own voice that bounce from floor to ceiling and wall to wall.

Eventually, Yuuri stumbles back into his bunker, half-blinded by tears and half-choking on hysterical sobs. Tremors reminiscent of violent ocean waves rack his body and he barely makes it to his bed before he collapses, shoulders heavy with despair and legs weak under the prospect of having to fumble his way through loneliness all over again.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, vision flickering between the creases of his pillowcase, suffocating darkness, and what Yuuri had always imagined Viktor to look like, moonlit hair and dazzling smile.

He thinks he dreams of snowfall and of catching chilly crystals on his tongue, of winters spent huddled around a kotatsu and blowing on hot tea hard enough to make his glasses fog, of family trips to the ice skating rink and the feel of ice melting through his pants after taking a tumble, of Viktor’s voice above him laughing and urging him to _get up, Yuuri, come on get u_ —

“— _p, Yuuri! Wake up, please! Yuuri! Yuuuuuuuuri!_ ”

Yuuri’s eyes flutter open but he remains where he is, body unmoving. His eyelids feel so heavy and it takes every ounce of willpower not to let them fall closed again. Even so, the corners of his mouth turn up in the ghost of a smile.

“V-Viktor?” Yuuri’s voice breaks on the first syllable, and the second barely reaches above a whisper. “You…you’re here? You didn’t l-leave?”

“ _No, Yuuri_ ,” and Viktor’s voice is the softest it’s ever been, warm and comforting like the lick of a candle flame, “ _I’m still here._ ”

“Where…did you go?” His words leave him on the wings of a single whispered, unsteady rush of breath. He’s so, so tired and all he wants to do is sleep; sleep and escape to his dreams where Viktor is real and they map each other out with more than just eyes, where detours are taken through hand-holding and they are never quite close enough even when touching. 

“ _I_ _wanted to try something_.” Viktor’s voice hardens then, bordering on urgency. “ _You need to listen to me, Yuuri. I think I found a way to get you home_." 

And then the world comes rushing back in stark relief, leaving Yuuri breathless and shuddering as he manages to push himself upright.

“What are you talking about?” He can’t have heard Viktor correctly. “Communications were—“

“ _Cut off, yes,_ ” Viktor interrupts hurriedly, “ _but not through me. I was only ever supposed to be activated in the case of an emergency. All systems were essentially on autopilot until you experienced your anxiety attack and passed out. But I figured out a way to rewire my communication abilities with you and transfer them to communications with the JAXA station using the nearby satellite as a conduit. That’s,_ ” Viktor pauses before continuing shakily, “ _That’s why I disappeared the last time. I needed to confirm that this attempt would work_.” 

“Viktor, I don’t—“

“ _Listen,_ ” Viktor insists, “ _I’ve already gotten in contact with them. It’s possible for them to gain complete remote access to the trajectory of this ship. They can get you back home in less than three years! I told them that_ —“

“Why?”

“ _What? Yuuri, we need t—“_

“Why weren’t you here?” Yuuri hates that he can hear the tears in his voice, much less feel them flow down his cheeks. “Where did you go?”

“ _Yuuri, I told you,_ ” Viktor says carefully, as though afraid of saying the wrong thing. “ _I had to cut off communications with you in order to_ —“

“What now, then?” Yuuri inquires flatly, swinging his legs over the edge of his mattress and staring down at his hands.

A moment of silence, and then, “ _Once you give them the okay, they can reroute the spacecraft and override the original flight pattern._ ”

Yuuri allows that to sink in. He doesn’t have to die. He can go home. He can reunite with his family. He can do all the things he thought he’d never be able to do again. He isn’t doomed to seven miserable years in space with nothing but death waiting at the end. All of this, and yet the only thing Yuuri seems to care about is—

“What’ll happen to you?”

Viktor doesn’t answer.

“Viktor,” Yuuri tries again, “What will happen to you?”

“ _I…I’ll be overridden. In order for JAXA to take over remote control of the ship, all systems on board will be purged. My memory disk will be wiped clean so there’ll be no record of our conversations._ ”

 _Ah_ , Yuuri thinks. _There it is. The catch_.

“I’m not going back.” He says this with a confidence that doesn’t feel like his own.

“ _Yuuri?_ ”

“I won’t go back.”

“ _Yuuri, what are you saying?"_  

“Do you know what I went through when I thought you had disappeared?” He can feel bile rising to the back of his throat and clenches his knuckles to whiteness as he swallows it back down. “I thought I was going to die. Not from starvation. Not from some freak ship-related accident. From not having you with me.”

“ _Yuuri, I’m only a_ —“

“A computer? Bullshit.” The words leaving his mouth don’t sound like his, hollow and hard with adamant disbelief, and Yuuri can barely believe he’s saying anything at all, not when his blood has turned to lead and the ends of his nerves are burnt raw. “You’re the only reason I made it this far. If I don’t have you with me, there’s no point. You made me like this, Viktor. _You_ did.” 

“ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Yuuri_ ,” Viktor apologizes over and over like a mantra, but perhaps more like a broken record because Yuuri’s ears are filled with emotionally driven static. “ _You can blame me all you want, Yuuri. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault and I’m sorry, but you have to go home_.”

“No.” Yuuri’s voice comes out steely and cold and he can scarcely recognize the sound of his own voice.

Viktor sighs in the most resigned sort of way, but beneath it rests fear, concern, and just a hint of anxiety. Something he must have picked up from Yuuri. “ _Yuuri, I have the ability to forge your consent and have JAXA reroute the ship anyway_.”

Yuuri raises his brows and lifts his head to look out across the room. Slowly, as though wading through shallow pools of a forgotten dream, he leaves his bed and pads out of the bunker, across the bridge, past the engine room, and stops in front of the pressurized hatch that leads out to the exposed boarding zone on the external side of the spacecraft. While he walks, he begins to hum the ghost of the melody he and Viktor had sung together what now seems like years ago.

“If you do that,” Yuuri begins, breaking free the first latch. A whistle of air leaks into the ship and suddenly a haunting wail echoes throughout the spacecraft, accompanied by flashing lights the color of blood. “I’ll jump out of the ship.”

“ _No you won’t_ ,” Viktor says, practically yelling over the sound of the emergency sirens. “ _Don’t be stupid, Yuuri! Secure the latch._ ”

“Only if you promise not to give the okay.”

“ _It’s for your own good, Yuuri!_ ”

Yuuri fingers the second latch. “Promise not to give the okay.”

“ _I promise! I swear I won’t, Yuuri, just secure the latch!_ ”

Yuuri does, but not before a solemn smile pulls back his tear-stained cheeks. The sirens cease their wailing almost immediately.

“Viktor.”

“ _Yuuri,"_  Viktor pleads, trying one last time. “ _You don’t belong here. You belong on earth. With your family. With your friends. At ho_ —”

“This is my home, Viktor,” Yuuri says quietly. In the suffocating darkness, his murmur sounds more like the ghost of a whisper. “This has been my home for a long time.”

 _“Yuuri_ —”

“We built this home. From the ground up, Viktor. We did. We built this place together and I have no intention of abandoning it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“ _Yuuri, what_ —"

“Do you?”

A short pause.

“Viktor, ask me the question.”

“ _Which question, Yuuri?_ ”

“You know which.” He says this with immovable conviction because he knows Viktor. Viktor is no computer. Viktor is Viktor and Yuuri knows him like the back of his own hand.

“ _Yuuri, if I were real, do you think I would be beautiful?_ ”

Yuuri closes his eyes and this time, instead of the tears, Viktor’s face smiles at him from the backs of his eyelids, all ocean eyes and moonlit bangs.

“Very.”

 

 

+

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I love kudos and comments and katsudon.  
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/lovechiId).


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